Code Noir (6 page)

Because he’d been a friend to me when there was no one else. Because he’d risked his life for me when Daac had asked him to help. And because he could still laugh at himself.

Ibis had all the qualities I admired. All the qualities I couldn’t afford.

I breathed for calm. ‘I must be feeling better, eh?’ I laughed shakily and swung up off the narrow cot. ‘Let’s go take a proper look at the job.’

He returned a small, troubled smile.

I hoped I hadn’t just snuffed out one of the few, lit corners in my world of shadows.

 

Teece came with us to the barracks. So did an oversized Pet.

‘Gift from Larry Hein,’ said Teece when I raised an eyebrow. ‘Said to tell you he was useless as a servitor. Couldn’t take orders, always playing with his weapons. Thought maybe you could use him.’

I looked him over critically. Under the dirt his mek side seemed in good shape. Actuators powered by old DC motors. More degrees of freedom in his limbs than I had.

Pets came with different proportions of mek to bio. Some had mek limbs and normal bodies, others had virtually all mek with the remnants of a brain and a rudimentary set of internal organs. I couldn’t even begin to guess how some of them stayed alive, what they ate, where they peed from, whether they had sex. This one looked to be mainly bio with arms and legs of titanium. And a battered akubra stuck to his head.

His face was the problem. It was altogether too sweet.

‘What’s your name?’ I didn’t talk to Pets much. They made me uncomfortable.

‘Roo - same as the animal.’

‘You like weapons?’

He gave a sly grin. ‘They like me.’

I took in the tips of his mek digits and wondered what explosive devices or flick blades they hid. I could see the targeting hardware wired into his akubra and the line of the weapon compartments in his legs. My guess was the kid made my arsenal look like toy stuff.

But did he have any sense?

‘How do you afford that gear?’

‘Like I said. They like me. I can make a lot of this stuff. It seems sorta natural for me to do it. I worked with Ginnopolis fixing things, before the war. Sometimes he lets me upgrade and do maintenance.’

Ginnopolis? Minoj’s main competition in armaments
. My eyes widened. Now
that
could be handy.

He went on, ‘And jus’ so you know. I’m not one for older grrls. If I work for you . . . it’s biz only.’

I opened my mouth. Shut it again. Opened it again and managed, ‘Don’t get in my way’ as I strode inside the barracks.

The entire building smelt like kennels. I swallowed nausea and stalked angrily through each room. Ibis pranced nervously one step behind, hand over his nose. Roo trailed along more slowly, while Teece waited outside eyeing the bystanders.

‘I-it has potential.’ Ibis’s teeth chattered as he surveyed the filth of the ’goboy’s communal living - a mess and dormitory-style bunkrooms that slept a hundred or more. Then there was the fight room. Used for cock-fights and settling disputes and sex and whatever else the doggie critters liked to do.

Another memory swelled like blood from a fresh wound. My initiation into Jamon’s bondage had been lurid and degrading. Stamped possession.

I used my meditation techniques to soften the feelings.

‘I want this room scoured and sanitised like it was a medi-lab. Then I want it turned into a rec room. These kids need some fun. No Sensil.’

I had a private war going with Sensil. My mum, Irene, was addicted to it. It had turned her into a body battery that my stepdad Kevin had pretty well used up. With Irene in neuro-endocrine bliss, he ate her food and spent her money. The perfect arrangement. The wasted and the waster.

‘That’s a stupid idea,’ Roo commented, idly pickmg through his hair.

I swivelled, ready to tear chunks from him. ‘What makes you the expert?’ I snarled.

‘Can’t stop Sensil. Everyone does it. E-V-R-E-E-W-ON. ’

He spelled the word to me like I was a child.

My face bent into an ugly shape. I had a nasty look when I put my mind to it.

Roo seemed unphased.

Suddenly I had an inkling of why Larry had sent him to me. Maybe I needed to hear an opinion from someone who didn’t care too much who I was.

I toned down my bitch impersonation. ‘So what’s
your
angle?’

‘You stop ’em they’ll find another way. I says you can do two things. Control how often they bung in.’

‘Impossible. Or?’

‘Find ’em something better to do.’

Ibis swallowed his chuckle.

I glared at him and then at Roo. The Pet looked innocent and slightly bored. He scratched his scalp under his hat.

‘Like what?’

He shrugged. ‘You’re the boss, aren’tya? You work it out.’

‘You want to call me boss? Then go wash your hair and meet me later,’ I snapped.

‘Sure,
boss
,’ he said and swaggered off.

Ibis followed me to the san.

‘One thing, Ibis. No frills. If it looks too schmick, I’ll need an army to keep the
petits
and the poachers out. And the kids will feel . . . awkward.’

‘Boss says plain and simple,’ he said to his jotr.

‘Plain and simple,’ I echoed aloud. ‘Don’t forget.’

I dumped Ibis on Teece and said I’d meet them at Torley’s. Then I headed to my old digs to rescue Merry3#.

 

A babe had moved in - a pretty little piece with an extra breast. She answered the door dressed in a multi-cupped bikini that changed colours against her skin.

‘I want my holo back,’ I said shortly. ‘You can keep the rest.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You must be the last tenant. The landlord said you’d died and had no family. Said I could sell your belongings. I liked the holo, though, so I kept it.’

No family!
Well he was almost right about that, with sister Kat playing pro-ball in Eurasia somewhere and Irene down and out for the mattress count. That’s if Kat was still alive. Performance enhancers got all the pro-athletes in the end. As for stepdad Kevin . . .

I laughed shortly. ‘I
am
the landlord.’

‘Oh.’ She seemed at a loss then. ‘Would you like to come in?’

Her accent was cultured for The Tert. So were her manners. Maybe she was lost.

I stepped across the bloodstains on the threshold - more memories of Jamon’s ’goboys. I wondered if that one had regrown his eye. Inside was the same drab ’creted walls, same narrow bed.

Not so same the girlie bits - stuffed bears perched glassy-eyed on the kitchenette shelf, along with twirlystoppered fuck-me lotions and a limp dream catcher dangling where the window may have once been.

The dream catcher spurred a thought.

Without asking I dragged a chair across and peered up into the manhole. I had the ceiling stuffed full of precautions - motion sensors, light sensors, every damn thing that beeped and bopped - to keep out uninvited wasters. You’d be amazed what could crawl through a Tert ceiling.

‘What are you looking for?’ She sounded nervous.

‘You c’n sleep safe at night . . . er . . .’

‘Tingle Honeybee,’ she offered.

I tried to say the name, choked on it, and gave up. Who in the freaking Wombat would call themselves
Tingle Honeybee?

‘Yeah, well. Leave what’s up there alone and it’ll warn you if something’s planning a visit,’ I said.

‘But what would I do then?’ she pouted.

‘Buzz off, I guess.’

I scooped Merry 3#’s control unit off the floor and left, stifling a guffaw until I was outside. It had been so long since I’d laughed, it hurt.

My stupid, weak joke had me sniggering all the way back to Jamon’s. I backhanded the tears from my eyes and waited impatiently while Merry 3# reinstated on her new commlink. A personal organiser wasn’t worth a pinch without a line to Common Net and
One-World
.

She shimmered into life looking pretty damn pouty. ‘You’ve been out a while,’ she complained.

I ignored her whinging. ‘I’m waiting for an important call. Anything come in?’

‘Well, yeah.’

‘Well, show me.’ I dropped on to a couch that had appeared in my absence, courtesy of Larry Hein no doubt. This warlord thing had some perks, apart from the fact that every joker in The Tert seemed to be able to get into my place.

Merry 3# cleared her throat, interrupting my reverie. ‘Only one recent . . . and urgent.’

‘ Shoot.’ I sat up, praying it was Larry.

Merry 3# snapped her fingers and a board appeared. Her clothes morphed - skin-tight duds to a barely bikini. Just like a
One-World
weather grrl.

‘Fashion junkie,’ I sniped.

‘Fashion tragedy,’ she retorted.

I smoothed the fringe on my jacket and vowed to find the tekboy that made Merry and get him to service her. A few weeks with Tingle Honeybee and she’d turned psychotic.

‘Give,’ I ordered.

‘Oh yes, that’s right.’ She slipped back into her skin-tights and was filing her nails.

The blackboard switched to a screen. It was Teece, his face bulging purple. ‘Where ’n hell’s gonads are you, Parrish? I got trouble.’

 

 

 

 

I hit the pavement in Torley’s at full sprint. Teece didn’t shout ‘help’ very often. Never, in fact. He was a big boy. Able to handle himself.

Outside Hein’s a mini stand-off was happening. A bunch of Plastique heavies and a tiny band of masked-up ferals brandishing a vial, with a crowd of Hein’s regular punters caught in between. They saw me coming and the sea parted.

I kicked the door wide, Luger in each hand.

Melodramatic? I didn’t think so.

A quick recce told me Larry had the damage meter set to holocaust. Not a drink to be seen, not a stale bread stick in sight. Nothing but some uninvited parties, Teece with a shok-rod stroking each ear and Ibis strung upside down from the overhead light grills like a pig ready to be spitted.

‘Easssy,’ hissed Teece.

I breathed hard and fast. His look told me he was worried about what I might do that would cause them to scramble his brain. Permanently.

The guys that held the shok-rods were my size. Skewbalds - face, brown and white. Skin-mixed jerks with cheaply sculpted muscles. More Plastique types.

Too far from home!

They shifted a little, dragging Teece with them.

I noticed a small figure behind; seated at a table. I didn’t need any introductions.

‘You could have just called, Road.’

He butted out his smoke and flashed me a smile.

Road Tedder. Mover on the southside of The Tert, in Plastique, where you could buy anything for a price. Rumour had it he’d killed and eaten his wife when he’d lived in the ’burbs. Been hiding out ever since.

Couldn’t see it myself. A walking cadaver with a concave stomach.

Emaciated or not, Road still stirred plenty of aggravation round here. Gave my one-time lover, Doll Feast, ulcers.

‘Hear you’re a busy girlie. Wanted to get your attention. ’

Only one other thing made me spit more than that term - anyone threatening my good friends. Those that cared for me got looked after by me. Period. In truth, it was all I had to give in return.

And Teece and Ibis got more than most.

I spared Ibis a quick glance. He looked terrified, but that was sham. Ibis was smart and tougher than spectra. What I couldn’t work out was how the two of them got taken unawares.

‘You got it, Road. But not the way you might like.’

‘Put the guns away. And let’s see what sort of a business head you got,
girlie
.’

I began to imagine what fertiliser I’d mix him with.

Not a good thought to have. The blood lust started and the world reduced to sharp outlines. My body pulsed with revenge. I fought the sensation down with every ounce of my inner strength because it kept me from doing the smart thing, and got me doing the messy thing.

‘What business is that?’ I ground out.

‘Jamon and I had a deal.’

His words dampened my blood hunger better than a dunk in the Filder River. My vision cleared some.

Road lit up again and inhaled. Wet, sucking noises. ‘Supply and supply. Mondo supplied the punters, I supplied Mondo.’

I stared stupidly at him.

In my corner sight Teece writhed a little, trying to tell me something.

Then it hit me. Drugs. Tedder moved most of The Tert’s drugs.

You could buy anything from anyone round here, but the bulk procurement and sales were divvied up as tidily as sashimi.

Far as I knew, it went like this. Tedder lauded over Plastique, sold the drugs and ran the black-market trade. Doll Feast carved a chunk out of that pie and dabbled in prosthetics and body parts. Jamon Mondo psuedopimped Torley’s, Shadoville and The Stretch, and made sure the punters got entertained. Topaz Mueno barely controlled The Slag and a thousand knifed-up Muenos.

Io Lang - the shape-shifter I’d pinged right here in Hein’s - had supposedly been
the man
in Dis - but I wasn’t so sure who really lorded over the sinister heart of The Tert. According to Teece the name ‘Dis’ had some obscure connection with hell. Nothing obscure about it as far as I could see.

Geographical demarcation in The Tert was more than lines on a map. It was something you just knew. Usually by the look of the punters strutting the pavements, the crappo decorations on buildings, and whatever the vendors hawked. The Muenos had toll points on the main thoroughfares. Plastique had toll for those that came in off the Transway.

I knew it like the classroom of my net-school when I’d lived back in the ’burbs.